


legacy

by livetoclaim



Category: Jem and the Holograms (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drama, Gen, Set pre-series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29958612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livetoclaim/pseuds/livetoclaim
Summary: Phyllis Gabor refuses an offer.
Kudos: 2





	legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Posted as a part of a 'project' of me digging up some old fic from my hard drive and reconsidering perhaps finishing/polishing/posting some of it, after all... This was originally conceived off as part of a VERY epic Misfits-fic/series, which I now know will never see the light of day, but I do think it works very well on it's own, too! :)

*

The small London club is not a stadium of thousands, but it might as well be.

Phyllis Gabor is on the stage, _singing_ , and nothing matters but the moment. There's a thousand eyes on her and a thousand voices screaming, a thousand hands in the air reaching for her, a thousand people drowning in her voice, in the _music._ It's an old song and familiar but right now it's _hers_ , right now every single word is hers and the club is hers and the _audience_ is hers, right now the world is stars and lights, exploding in her blood and and making her fly, people screaming and _seeing_ her and _wanting_ her, everyone in that damn club has their eyes glued to her and finally _,_ no one, _no one,_ looks away –

And afterwards, she is sprawled in a chair, whatever drink there is in her glass almost forgotten because she doesn't even feel like drinking, her mind still swirling with the _stage_ , with the _audience,_ swirling and flying higher than she has ever been in her life. Phyllis doesn't know this feeling – she doesn't have the words for it, this the half satisfaction-for-perhaps-the-first-time-in-her-life, and half hunger: hunger to do it _again_ , to _always_ do it, to be always, _always_ on that stage with the thousand eyes upon her and the thousands voices screaming her name –

”You were absolutely brilliant up there”, the guy is saying, the guy with his hand on her thigh, the guy who she thinks told her his name but whose name she has already forgotten. She likes the feel of his hand on her thigh though – warm and firm and just high up enough to be assured but not _too_ high, not so high as to kill all the tension of the moment because if Phyllis has learned anything the hard way, then it is that no guy who cannot wait two seconds before grabbing her boobs or whatever is _ever_ going to be anything like a satisfactory experience in bed. But this guy knows what he is about, or at least his hand on her thigh makes Phyllis think so, and she likes his voice too – the soft caress of it, the honesty of the compliment – so she turns and smiles at him, and he smiles back. Mmm. He does looks good – dark hair and grey eyes and just a hint of the mischievous in the corner of his smile, a confidence telling her he is used to getting whoever he wants, and right now he wants her, wants her because he means what he said, that she was brilliant up there on the stage, absolutely brilliant –

”Do you have a manager?” the red-haired guy across the table asks, his voice trembling with awe. ”You _should_ have a manager. In fact, er, I'm looking for new talent right now, and, er –”

Sean snorts. ”She doesn't even have a _band”,_ he tells the red-haired manager-wannabe in a tone that's not quite as light as he probably thinks it is, but Phyllis doesn't care. ”Those were _my_ boys up there. _My_ band.”

Phyllis waves her hand dismissively. ”Yeah”, she tells Sean, ”and no one gave a shit about them, Sean, they all wanted _me._ ”

The memory twists her lips - the memory of the _stage_ , the _crowd_ , so recent and so close and still so _alive_ , singing a thousand sparks in her blood – bursting a smile over her lips, an expression that feels strange on her face, but fuck it, she doesn't _care_ , because that was _awesome_ , that was the most awesome night yet, and she wants _more_ of it, more –

People laugh, of course they laugh - because it's true and because she told them to laugh, because right now they are hers and they do what she tells them to do, and Sean's face twists in something that is only trying to be a smile. Yeah, they all want her – even Sean, it's painfully obvious for all that he's trying to look as if he doesn't care, for all that he has some girl half in his lap and his hands all over her, that he'd rather be with _her_ , with Phyllis. But eh, she's been there and done that, and it was okay – okay enough that she did it more than once – and it wasn't as if she promised him anything, in fact only went for it more than once because he seemed like the kind of guy who'd be fine with it, who wouldn't get all possessive and clingy, who knew how to have fun and could take sex for what it was. (And to be fair, Sean's not being possessive or clingy now, either, just a little tad jealous - and Phyllis doesn't mind that, it's always nice to be wanted. Wanted and envied.)

”I'm the one with a record contract”, he tells the people around the table, lifting his hands and trying to look as if he doesn't care. ”Me and the boys. First single coming out in a couple weeks _._ ”

”And then you'll be famous, right, Sean?” Kate teases. ”All the little school girls are gonna love you...” And people laugh, even those who can't possibly understand Kate's reference, even those who've never even met Sean before, who haven't spent every moment these last few weeks listening to him bragging about how he's got it _made_ , about how _easy_ it's going to be woo the masses with simple pop songs and a wholesome attitude –

”That's right, guys and gals”, Sean says overly brightly in that over-the-top British accent he has the annoying habit of affecting, and kisses the fingers of his girlfriend-for-the-night – kissing her fingers and flashing a tight smile at Phyllis.”I'm the one who's going to be famous. I can afford to let 'Zazz 'ere borrow me band for a night...”

”School girls?” says Sean's girlfriend-for-the-night, turning her head to look at him in what is both confusion and disappointment, ”I thought you were some kind of rock star –?”

”'Zazz?” someone else asks, and other people who are new to the table glance at her again, because of course, _she's_ the one they care about, not Sean's delusions of overnight fame.

The grin breaks out over her face a way that is still uncommonly, surprisingly _easy –_ an outward reflection of the stars dancing in her blood, the light in her heart. ”Short for Pizzazz”, she says, fluffing her neon hair. She doesn't even remember who said it, one of those first nights in London. Someone telling her _you've got something special, a certain... pizzazz_ , and she laughed, and decided she liked the word, and Kate and Martin and Sean took her up on it. A hundred times better a name than _Phyllis_ , that's for damn certain.

”So you should get a band of your own!” the red-haired guy goes on with more excitement. ”I know these guys – I mean, I'm managing a band, and –”

Phyllis leans in her chair back while he blathers on, about those guys he knows and their lead singer who isn't up to scratch and she thinks yeah, maybe she _should_ get a band, a band of her own. But not some losers this or that guy knows, of course not – if she's going to have a band, she's going to pick the people herself, the _right_ people... Something inside of her twists: Cool people, with the right attitude, so it doesn't look like she's teaming up with losers, but also... people who can do what they're _told_ , who can stay two steps behind her on the stage and let _her_ shine, because if she's going to have a band, it's going to be _her_ band –

_Her_ band, with their own music - songs with  _attitude_ , not that tepid pop crap Sean imagines will make him famous. Something that can light a match to the fire in her blood, songs with words she can sing with all of her heart, songs that can sweep through crowds of thousands and sell out arenas, songs that can tell all the world who she is, songs that can pull everyone's attention to her and never,  _ever_ let go –

Shit, she likes the idea – she likes it so much she cannot keep another smile from bursting over her face, just from the  _idea_ of a band like that, of the screaming crowds and nights like this night, like this but more,  _more_ and  _always,_ bigger crowds and better songs, and  _lights_ , always, always lights. 

*

And then it's hours and hours later and Phyllis is stumbling in through the doors of her apartment building together with that really hot guy from the club, whatever his name was – stumbling in through the doors with her mouth on his mouth and her hands in his hair and his hands under her top, hands warm and strong and confident and she has _waited_ , damn it, for all that it was tempting to just pull him with her to some secluded corner or whatever, waited because she thinks that he'll be good at this and she wants to do it properly, properly in real a bed for hours, and she hopes to hell that she's right, that he'll be worth the wait –

”Miss Gabor?” The doorman's voice is insistent – Phyllis gets the feeling that he's repeated himself several times already and the annoyance surges through her because can't he see she's _busy?_ ”Miss Gabor?”

She tears herself away from the guy, not because she wants to but because the doorman won't just _shut up._ ” _What?!_ ”

”I have an urgent message from your father”, he says, unruffled, and holds up a cream envelope.

_Her father._ More annoyance surges through her, annoyance and that other feeling, almost of falling, and she pushes it away, embraces the annoyance instead – because it's nothing important, of course not, not from _him;_ nothing worth interrupting her for, nothing worth spoiling her mood for but of course it's too late, for that, already –

Surely, he can't be _dead_ , or something? The spike of fear is as sudden as it is unexpected, and she pushes it away, forcefully. This wouldn't be how they'd tell her _that._

”Tomorrow!” she snarls. ”I'm _busy!_ ”

”I'm afraid it cannot, in fact, wait until tomorrow”, the doorman says, just when she's about to turn back to the guy, to his hot lips and warm, self-assured hands, just when she's about to dive back into it again and hope to hell his body can still chase everything but the present away – ”I had specific instructions to hand this over to you as soon as you returned –”

And it's too late, already - the mood is spoiled and she tears herself away from the guy, snatches the cream envelope from the doorman and rips it open: one short note, one plane ticket. She blinks at the contents, for a second more surprised than anything else.

”Is everything all right?” the guy asks her, from behind her back, but she ignores him.

A short note: _Phyllis, I request you back in Los Angeles immediately. – Harvey Gabor._

It's not even his handwriting, of course – it's something he has phoned in to someone who has then written his words by hand on a thick cream piece of paper bearing the _Gabor_ logo, and the whole thing is just... _What the hell?!_

The plane ticket is for tomorrow, a direct flight leaving Heathrow for LAX at 6.45 in the morning. And 6.45 in the morning means that it is actually _today_ – almost despite herself, Phyllis glances at the clock hanging above the doorman's desk: A little past 3 am. The damn flight is in just a little over three hours.

”This is bullshit!” Her voice sounds strange to her own ears, half-choked. ”I'm not fucking going back to L.A!”

The doorman clears his throat. ”I am also required to tell you”, he says, ”that the lease on the apartment has been cancelled, effective immediately. That means that you have until noon tomorrow too clear out your belongings.”

He can't do this to her – he _can't_ , but he _can_ , and she can't see _why,_ because it's not like he _cares_ , it's not like he _ever_ cared, so why the hell can't he just leave her be in London? She _likes_ it here, damn it, she likes it better than just about anything she's done with her life this far, the nights at the clubs and the crowd and the _stage_ , damn it, the stages and the music and it's not _fair –!_

”What's wrong?” the guy asks, sounding almost worried.”What's happened?”

” _Get out of here!_ ” she turns and screams at him , because it's all ruined anyway and she's lost every inclination to do anything but scream. ” _Get the hell out!_ ”

The guy backs a step, raising his hands in defeat, looking taken aback, and... almost hurt, or some other wimpy feeling like that, and Phyllis abruptly hates him. ”Take it easy”, he says, ”I just wanted to know if you were all right –”

And she's not all right, she's a far fucking cry from all right, and she wants him _gone._

” _GET OUT!_ ” she screams again, and when he's not quick enough, she grabs the pot plant on the door man's desk, grabs the pot plant and hurls it, not _at_ him exactly but in that general direction, hitting the wall next to the door and smashing dirt and pieces of ceramic all over the floor.

”All right, all right”, the guy says, the hurt on his face twisting into something that's more like anger. ”Fine, I'm going! Jeez!”

And he swirls through the door and is gone and suddenly, Phyllis wants nothing so much as to sink down to the floor next to the smashed pot plant, because the stars in her blood are all gone, replaced by something heavy and dark pulling her down and almost she cannot breathe and it's not _fair,_ but the door man is hovering uncertainly nearby, and if he says anything Phyllis will _kill_ him, but he says nothing, there's no sound, no sound but the roaring silence in her ears.

*

And even before she is fully awake Phyllis is painfully aware that she is back in L.A. The sensation of the soft bed she is face-down on, the pillows she is drooling on and the painfully absolute silence all around, are all so  _familiar_ it makes her want to puke – or perhaps the nausea is just from whatever hangover she has not quite managed to sleep off. 

Phyllis blinks in the direction of the digital clock on her bedside table with sticky eyes: 3.22 pm – she’s slept for hours. Her mouth, she discovers when she attempts to move it, is dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth uncomfortably. Groaning, Phyllis rolls over – she doesn’t want to wake up, she doesn't want to be here, she doesn't want to fucking  _accept_ that she is here. 

_I request you back in Los Angeles immediately._

Phyllis rolls out of bed – she thinks she might need to puke for real, but once she’s stumbled out of her bed room and out into the kitchenette and had a glass of ice cold water and splashed some more ice cold water on her face, the nausea has receded somewhat. Shit, how much did she drink on the plane, anyway? She doesn’t remember, only remembers starting with champagne and then moving on to hard liquor while the plane flew on and on and on forever, drinking and trying to quench the discomfort that grew stronger and stronger the closer she was getting to L.A, the discomfort and boredom itching in every inch of her body, making her want to scream, making her want to _smash_ something.

_I request you back in Los Angeles immediately._

She hurls the glass she was drinking from _down_ , crashing it into a thousand gleaming pieces all across the kitchenette floor, but it doesn't help, of course it doesn't help. _Fucking bullshit._ Her dad doesn't want her for anything, he never cared, so why the _fuck_ couldn't he just leave her be in London? Where, for first time in she doesn't know how many fucking years, she was actually... _having fun_ , or something? 

There's more glasses in the cupboards and cabinets by the kitchenette, water glasses and wine glasses and cocktail glasses, mugs and plates and bowls, but after she's smashed every single one to pieces on the hard stone floor, all that remains is the silence, the absolute deafening  _silence_ of the mansion, and Phyllis will go crazy with it, she knows she will, she needs to get  _out_ . 

Out, and away from here.

And then she is in her car – a thousand other cars honking at her, spewing exhaust gasses and blocking her way, and she doesn't even understand why the hell she decided to drive _downtown_ , because she _knows_ downtown is like this, it's not a place where you can ever just _drive,_ ever just hit the gas pedal and go faster and faster while every other damn car gets out of your way, you need the highways for that, the highways and the beaches and the cliffs and the winding roads where you're always just one split-second's mistake from crashing and burning, so what the hell is she even _doing_ , downtown –? 

But then she sees the all too familiar building rise up in front of her, steel-gray and inaccessible, the name  _Gabor_ glinting on top, and she thinks  _yeah_ . She'll walk in there, and she'll  _demand_ to see him. She'll walk in and demand to see him and she won't take no for an answer, not matter how  _busy_ he says he is, she's going to have an answer, he's going to  _have_ to acknowledge her for once and tell her what the hell he thinks he's about –

_I request you back in Los Angeles immediately._

So she stops the car in front and tries too focus the hang-over and nausea and anger into something sharp, something useful, because she knows how it will go, she knows how this always goes, every time she needs something from her dad badly and acutely enough to come here and seek him out. She knows they will all tell her that he is busy, that he may not be disturbed, that he is in some stupid meeting or on the phone with someone in Hong Kong or in Paris, and she will have to scream and shout and threaten people for fucking  _forever_ until they finally let her in to see him, and once they  _do_ let her in - and they always do, once she has screamed at them enough – he will be distracted with some paper in his hand or some people in the room with him and she will have to, abruptly, calm down and be all sweetness and smiles and humiliate herself and beg and plead for whatever stupid thing she came there to ask him for, and of course he'll give it to her, the sooner to have her out of his hair, and she will leave with some bad, bitter taste in her mouth.

But not this time. This time she doesn't want anything from him, nothing he can reject and nothing she will have to plead with him for. This time all she wants is to have him know how fucking angry she is with him for messing with her life like that, just like that, with no reason at all making her leave London immediately, making her leave when  _he_ was the one who wanted her to go in the first place, messing up something that for the first time in years was  _hers_ , only  _hers._

But when she arrives in the elevator to the top-floor, prepared to scream and shout and kick and break things until she gets her way, her father's secretary merely looks at her, reaching for the phone with her other hand.

“Miss Gabor”, she says, “your father wanted to see you at once if you were to show up.” 

And pushes some button on the phone, saying something about Phyllis being here now, and yes, she'll send her in, and a shiver of something strange, something unknown, flutters across Phyllis' stomach, because this is not how this is supposed to go, this is not how it  _ever_ goes. A shiver of something that is almost fear, because if he actually will let her in immediately, with no fuss and no fight, then –Then, she doesn't know what, but it means  _something_ , something  _serious_ , and if that shiver is almost fear, it is also almost, almost some kind of hope, too. Because maybe, just maybe it means that he actually had some  _reason_ to call her back from London, that he actually  _wants_ something with her, that he actually maybe in some strange way does care just a little bit –

But the moment she opens the door to his office, and sees the expression on his face, all that vanishes, the shiver going dead and defeated, because  _of course_ not.

Of course  _fucking_ not. 

“You _embarrassed_ me, Phyllis!” he shouts at her, red in the face, the moment she walks into his office, and she wonders, for a second, what the hell she is supposed to have even _done_. “Do you know how many people would _give their right arm_ for an internship with Lockman & Smith? I had to call in a _personal_ _favor_ from Charles! And you! _You don't even bother to show up!!_ ”

Phyllis breathes out through her nostrils. Right.  _Some people would give their right arm for a chance like this –_ that's exactly what that snotty woman kept saying too, as she was walking Phyllis through the rooms and corridors and offices, and  _you will have to work as hard as everyone else, do not expect any special favors –_ because of course she'd been in the room with them when Charles Lockman shook her hand and said something about what an honor it was to have Harvey Gabor's daughter with them, and if she was anything like her father and  _blah blah_ , she didn't  _care,_ it was  _boring_ , she didn't  _care –_ And even so she  _did_ show up, once or twice, her first days in London when she didn't have anything better to do, but all it got her was that woman shouting at her that she should have been there at 8 am or whatever the hell, endless lectures and papers and some stupid  _meeting_ they were expecting her to attend, it was all so  _boring_ and  _pointless_ and of course she fucking stopped showing up at all after a few days. After a few days she had found better things to do with her time, clubs to go to and people to hang out with and stages to sing on, and  _why the fuck is he even surprised_ , it wasn't as if she wanted to go to London in the first place, it wasn't as if it was  _her fucking idea –_

“ _What do you have to say for your self this time?”_ he shouts at her, but his anger is a strange thing, not exactly unfamiliar but unimportant, and Phyllis feels oddly detached from it. 

Oddly disappointed, because she knows how this goes, too. He has been angry and shouted before but it always evaporates – he always sighs in the end and decides it doesn't matter after all, and the next time she goes to see him whatever it was that made him angry is forgotten and it is the same damn thing all over again, nothing she ever does even matters for him enough to be angry about for real. 

“It was _boring_ ”, she says, hating how she sounds more petulant than angry. Hating the nausea in her throat and the way she cannot quite look at him, the way this has not at all gone how she was expecting it to go, how he has taken her anger away from her and claimed it for himself. “I _hated_ it there.”

“ _Boring?!_ ” Harvey Gabor is incredulous, for a second, then he slumps down in his chair behind his desk, his anger evaporating into despair, the way it always goes. _I hated it there_ , she has said, too, about all the schools they threw her out of, and he always sighed in the end, and found her a new one. Phyllis wonders if that is how this will go, too – an other pointless internship after internship somewhere. She will refuse to go, she thinks, and then no, she _will_ go, because it's not like she wants to stay in L.A either, she _hates_ L.A. – and yet, if this too will go exactly the same every damn time, him making her come back to L.A. just as she's beginning to _have fun_ , then what's even the _point_? What's the point if he won't fucking allow her to stay long enough to build a _following_ , to find a _band –_? 

“Phyllis, I don't understand”, he says, half angry and half plaintive, “I thought... I thought you would have an easier time learning the basics of running a multinational company from someone else _besides_ me! How do you imagine you will be able to take over the company if you refuse to learn the first thing about business?!”

Phyllis blinks, because there is something so utterly  _alien_ about that very thought: To take over the company.

“I won't take over your company”, she says, stunned into honesty: She has never, ever in her life imagined that she will, that he will somehow _expect_ that of her. Abruptly, Phyllis feels the weight of the building around her: the steel and the concrete and the meaningless blather on phones and papers upon papers and ringing phones and more papers, all the people she has to shout at to see her dad, all the damn things he is always busy with and she feels violently ill, suddenly. Perhaps it is just hangover. Perhaps it is the mere idea of being shackled to this damn building for the rest of her life. 

“What do you mean you won't take over the company!?” He is more exasperated than angry, utterly refusing to believe her, and at that realization something, something again like that shiver, runs through Phyllis' belly. 

Perhaps it is the realization that he has expected that she will - that he has somehow been taking it for granted for who even knows  _how_ long that Phyllis will one day take over his stupid company, whereas the thought has never even fully crossed Phyllis' mind. 

Perhaps it is the idea that she can  _refuse_ him this. That for maybe the first time in her life  _he_ wants something from  _her_ , something  _she_ can decline to give him.

That she, for maybe the first time in her life, has some kind of power over him. 

“Of course you will take over the company!”, Harvey Gabor is saying now, completely uncomprehending of any alternative. “What _else_ do you think you're going to do with your life!?”

_What else_ , he asks, and the memory explodes in her: the stages in London, the  _lights_ , the  _crowd_ , the  _music._ The memory, the answer, the soaring feeling of the one and only thing in her life that she has ever,  _ever_ wanted –

Phyllis swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. “I'm going to start a band”, she says, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to look defiant, hating the mere suggestion of a tremble in her voice. Hating the way her heart is pounding, hating the way he can still –  _still_ \- make her feel like this: three years old, desperate for his attention. For his approval. 

“A _band!_?” He sounds as though he hasn't ever even heard of the concept. “What, to... to... play... _music_?!”

“ _Yes_ ”, Phyllis says, and knows there are no words for it, no words that can capture the experience, no words that can make him see what she felt like on that stage, nothing she can say that won't make him think it sounds ridiculous. She tries anyway, arms crossed and as much defiance and fierceness she can muster in her stance and in her voice: “I'm gonna be a rock star.”

And of course he thinks it sounds ridiculous. He makes a sound, half a sigh and half a groan, lifting his hand almost as if to drag it over his face in defeat, but forcing it down again.

“A rock star”, he repeats, trying to sound patient but failing. “Well, fine. Start a band. Play music. Do a record if you want, I'll pay for it. But you still need to learn how to run the company! It will still all be yours one day, and I won't let you squander my life's work just because you refuse to learn even the most basic things about how to run it!”

There's an edge of steel in his voice she hasn't heard for a long time, or perhaps ever, and that makes that shiver of something burst forward violently, filling her mouth with a heady taste that might be power. So  _what_ if he will be angry? Angry is  _good_ , angry means he actually  _cares_ about something she does or doesn't do, that she can finally, finally  _get_ to him for real in some way – 

And  _of course_ the only way to do that is through his fucking company - why did she never see that before? His damn company is the  _only_ thing he has ever cared about. 

“I don't _want_ your stupid company!” she hisses. “I don't want _anything_ from you! I don't want your stupid _money_ , or your – _help_. I'll get my _own_ fucking record contract!” 

_Of course_ she will, she thinks, fighting the sudden dryness in her mouth that is only almost fear – of course she can get her own record contract, her own deal. She  _knows_ how the people looked at her on those stages, she  _heard_ how they screamed, she felt in every inch of her body and her soul how much they  _adored_ her and  _wanted_ her and were prepared to  _worship_ her.  _Make a record, I'll pay for it_ , he's saying, like she even  _asked_ , like this is just yet another small stupid thing she has fought her way here to ask him for, not an earthquake running though her entire life making her see, truly, for the the first time that she doesn't need him, that she doesn't need  _anything_ from him...  _Of course_ she has the power to make herself famous by her own accord, with no help from  _him_ , with no one even  _knowing_ he's her father –

_And then he'll see_ , a small voice inside her head says, but she pushes it away, because she isn't doing it for  _him_ , she's doing it for herself, for herself only. Phyllis swallows the dryness away and thinks of the stage, of the lights in her blood – allowing the memory and the promise to burn though her and give her strength. Refusing to be afraid, refusing to let the years when she has always made herself small for him force her into following that habit, refusing that all too ingrained sense saying that she should beg and plead for whatever little favors and scraps of time he can give her.  _I won't_ , she thinks, closing her eyes, thinking of the stage, of the lights, of the crowd, of people screaming and looking and looking, every pair of eyes in that club glued to her and no one, _no one_ looking away, no one thinking there was anything more important than  _she_ , up on the stage – 

_Nothing_ in her life has ever made her feel like the stages in London made her feel. 

Nothing in her life is more important than that.

_Nothing._

“Don't be _ridiculous_ , Phyllis!” her dad hisses at her, red in the face – at some point, he has gotten to his feet again. “I have spent my whole life building this company up from _nothing!_ I was born with _nothing!_ You have _no idea_ how hard I have worked to make this company into what it is, to build a _legacy_ that will outlive me! To make the name Gabor _mean_ something, across the globe! I have given my _entire life_ to building this company, I have sacrificed _everything_ for it, so don't come here and tell me _you don't want it!!_ ” 

_Yes_ , she thinks, feeling suddenly doused with terrible calm, because she does have an idea, she  _does_ know precisely how much of his life he has given to his stupid company. She knows precisely the emptiness of his forty-room mansion where he barely ever even sleeps and if he does, it's not like she knows either way because his rooms are way off on the other side and their paths barely ever cross even in the mansion. She knows precisely every damn moment of his life spent here in his office and in his meetings and with his papers and the distracted look on his face when she has managed to fight her way through his barriers of people and secretaries and doors, the distracted look on his face when she fucking humiliates herself asking for whatever stupid thing she came to ask him for and he doesn't even  _care._ She knows precisely the echoing silence left behind years and years ago when her mother walked out of that mansion for the last time, high heels clicking on the marble floor and the door slamming shut, her last words -  _I've had enough of this, Harvey -_ still hanging in the air and only Phyllis trying to call her back. 

She knows  _precisely_ what this company means to him: More than anything else ever has. 

And she thinks, suddenly, that she could walk away, now. The mere idea is making her almost nauseous, turning her mouth dry and setting her heart pounding: That _she_ could walk away from _him_ , now. That for the first time in her life, _she_ could walk away from _him_. _She_ could decide when this conversation is over, not him.

”I don't want it”, she says again - and if there is something in her very soul that trembles when she says those words, when she takes this irrevocable step away, she pushes it aside. ”I don't want your company. I don't want _anything_ from you.”

Not his money, not his connections, _nothing_. She is going to walk away, now, and she is going to make herself into something else, something new.

“Oh, _don't be ridiculous, Phyllis!_ ” he shouts again, when she turns to leave. When she _actually_ turns to leave. “ _You'll come back!_ ”

And she thinks, calmly, that no, she won't. She won't ever come back here to ask him for  _anything_ , never again plead with him for  _anything._ She has spent her entire life fighting for scraps of his attention, for scraps of his time, and she is so, so sick of it. So sick of him caring for nothing and no one but his company, so sick of humiliating herself for him, for begging him for stupid, meaningless favors, and she  _won't_ , ever again. 

She closes her eyes, and she lets the memory of that stage burn away all the damn stupid wimpy hope that he will ever care, that she will ever matter more to him than his damn company.

“ _Doesn't it mean anything to you?_ ” he shouts after her, a hint of something desperate in his voice - but not desperate enough to come after her, of course not. “That it's _your name_ on this building, too?!” 

_Gabor_ , the building says - but that's not  _her_ name, that has never been  _her_ name. 

And s he thinks again, of the stages and the clubs in London. Of the name people called her there - not  _Phyllis_ , not  _Miss Gabor_ \- but a name of her own choosing. 

And she remembers, with a strength that is almost violent, how  _good_ that felt. How it felt to stand on that stage, when everyone fucking looked at her, when every single person in those pathetic little clubs had their eyes glued to her, the way they fucking adored her and loved her and worshiped her. 

How no one knew the name she was born with, how no one knew her dad's name - how no one saw the shadow of him when they looked at her, the shadow of this building and the  _legacy_ he has committed his entire life to building. 

How no one saw  _anything_ but how she was burning and shining and flying on that stage, in that moment. 

“No”, she says, and she doesn't turn around. 

The name she makes immortal, she thinks as she walks out of her dad's office – the name the crowds will scream, over and over again - will be her  _own_ , her own only.


End file.
